


just a tease

by softweeping



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Intercrural Sex, Ken Doll Android Anatomy | Androids Have No Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Missing Scene, Sort Of, Spit As Lube, not really tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 20:52:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16374824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softweeping/pseuds/softweeping
Summary: Hank stares for a moment, before uttering a sharp curse. "You better clean me up before letting everyone know I died," he mutters. "No obituary that saysHank Anderson: had a heart attack and died fucking his hot android boyfriend."





	just a tease

**Author's Note:**

> n.b.: takes place during chapter 3 of my story force quit, tho not even close to necessary to read. this just didn't fit the mood.

"Hey Connor, c'mere for a second."

He looks up from where he's playing with Sumo to see Hank leaning against the sink, arms crossed over his chest and still a little soapy from washing the dishes. Connor can't help the small note of pride he feels on seeing him, remembering the state of the house the first time he'd come here.

He's trained his human so well.

Perhaps not as well as he'd thought, if he needs help with the dishes, but all the same— he stands as bidden, ruffling Sumo's fur before joining Hank in the kitchen.

"Did you need something?"

A familiar grin curls Hank's lips, and it sets Connor's thirium pump racing. He knows that look, has what is likely an unreasonable amount of memory space devoted to storing that look and what comes after it, and when Hank uncrosses his arms and holds them out, Connor slots himself into the space like was made for him. He expects Hank's arms to fold back around him; instead, big hands land on his hips, and then slide lower, cupping under his rear before settling around his thighs.

"You still wearing those things? Your, uh. Whatever they're called."

It's a superfluous question; he knows Hank can feel them through his pants, has his own tactile sensors turned up high enough that he can feel it when a thumbnail catches on one, drags it just a little bit. Hank's grin just grows, and Connor arches an eyebrow, wraps his arms around his neck. "My shirt garters?" Innocent as he says it, both of them well aware it's just an affectation. "Of course; I haven't had the chance to change yet. Why do you ask?"

Hank leans in, noses at his neck where it disappears beneath his collar. And in a low voice, very nearly a growl, says, "I wanna see 'em."

It's fascinating, the ways he responds when Hank's voice gets like that. His breath catches, despite not needing to breathe. Subroutines start, others shut down — he doesn't have the correct parts equipped ( _that can always be changed, he wants to change it right now_ ), and so instead of diverting anywhere his thirium just races through his body, almost singing its excitement. Reluctantly, Connor leans away, putting just enough space between them as he says, "I don't see anything stopping you."

It's all the invitation Hank needs: his hands shift, undoing the button of Connor's pants before slipping the entirety of his hands under the fabric, pushing it down with his wrists. His fingers find the shirt garters almost immediately, fingertips rubbing at the contrast between synthetic skin and elastic, snapping them against Connor's thighs like he did earlier in the day. 

As soon as his pants fall to his knees, Connor disengages, stepping back to kick them off the rest of the way. A message pops up in the corner of his vision — _fold pants properly_ — which he deletes without a second thought. And when he looks back up, he pauses. Hank is staring at his legs, breathing shallow and almost frozen where he stands. _This is what he wanted, right?_ It's a fleeting concern, before—

"Christ, you're gonna kill me one of these days." A quick scan shows otherwise: Hank's pupils are dilated, heart rate elevated, but nothing close to fatal levels. His eyes trace up and down Connor's legs for a moment, before he leans forward to wrap his fingers around the thick band of the shirt garters, pull the android flush against him again. "Did you have to wear the ones for your socks, too?"

 _Oh._ Connor raises his eyebrows. "It's the most efficient way to keep them from falling." 

"Uh huh. Sure." 

Hank snaps one of the straps that rest on his flank, and the sting of it makes Connor draw in a sharp breath, grind into him. Fingers tangle into the elastic again, and in the next instant they're kissing so quickly Connor's fairly certain his visual memory of this will have display errors on playback. Somehow, that makes it all the better; he can feel Hank stiffening against him, revels in the way rough hands grab at him. He reaches up to remove his tie, tossing it somewhere in the vicinity of the table behind them— 

—and both of them freeze at hearing a low growl from Sumo. Hank growls in response, the sound reverberating in his chest and felt throughout Connor's. "Don't you fuckin' move," he mutters in Connor's ear, and a shiver climbs its way down his synthetic spine. Hank steps out and around him, pulling the tie from where it landed on Sumo's head, and opens the back door to let him out. 

Connor watches him go, breath coming faster in an attempt to keep his internals cool. Excitement is a fascinating thing, he's learned, and he isn't sure he'll ever get tired of it. It's easy enough to disobey the order; by the time Hank returns, Connor's taken his place, leaning back against the counter with the top three buttons of his shirt undone. His pants are, notably, folded on one of the chairs by the dining table. He can feel Hank staring at him, notes the elevation of his vitals — and makes a show of very casually unbuttoning and rolling up the cuffs of his sleeves. 

In the next moment, he finds himself pressed back into the counter as Hank kisses him thoroughly, hungrily, a hand hooking under one of his knees to drag his leg up and around Hank's waist. Connor lets it happen, flexes his muscles to tighten that tenuous hold, and is rewarded with a low groan from deep in Hank's chest. The man ruts up against him, and Connor dips his hands between them to get Hank's pants unbuttoned and pushed out of the way. The hand under his knee slides, thumb tracing the muscle of his inner thigh before rubbing against the joint of his groin, catching in the fabric of his briefs.

"You packing?" Hank mutters, and it sends a hot wave of thirium crashing through Connor's veins.

"Not yet." Connor's voice is just as low, a little bit strained. Full of regret, definitely; he hadn't planned on intercourse today, and so hadn't equipped any genitalia. "But if you give me a moment, I can—"

"Nah." Hank leans in, bites at his lower lip. "This's fine." And he scoops his hands under Connor's thighs, boosting him onto the kitchen counter and stepping out of the way, tugging his briefs as far as they can get before getting caught on the elastic around his thighs. 

It's harder like this, he finds — he can't wrap his legs around Hank's waist, instead restricted to the stretch of his briefs and unwilling to destroy the pair — for the moment, at least. Connor lets out a frustrated little groan as Hank runs a finger along the smooth — disappointingly featureless — curve of his groin, and has never hated the CyberLife sculptors as much as he does right now: how _dare_ they not design him with standard human anatomy. It would make this so much easier.

Still, it's not all bad; he braces himself on his elbows on the counter, watching as Hank manhandles his legs, propping them up against his chest and over a shoulder before tilting his head to kiss the black sock garter on his calf, nosing at the strip of skin visible between the elastic and the sock itself. There's a sideways glance as Hank looks over at him, grey hair falling in front of his face, and he bites at the elastic, tugging for just a second before letting go and staring at the spot it snaps against. Connor watches, an eyebrow raised curiously — before realizing that the sharp snap of the elastic sends blue sparks across his skin as the synthetics readjust. Oh. _Oh_. That's why it feels like that. That's why Hank likes doing it.

"God, you're fucking beautiful," Hank mutters.

For the first time tonight, Connor feels just a little bit embarrassed — not because of the position he's in, or the fact that Hank put Sumo outside to save face in front of their dog, but due to Hank calling him beautiful, even despite the ways that he is very obviously not human. He catches one of Hank's hands in one of his own, brings the knuckles to his lips to kiss them.

"So are you, Hank." 

It's said with every ounce of honesty in his body, eyes locked to Hank's as he says the words. He can see the argument brewing in those blue eyes, knows how he wants to dismiss the compliment — so Connor switches his gaze to the hand he holds, catches the thumb on his tongue before sucking it into his mouth. He can hear Hank's breath catch, a glance confirming that his pupils have nearly doubled in size. Good. A quick modification turns up his fluid production, and when he swaps to suck at Hank's index and middle fingers, liquid trails from the corner of his mouth.

"Holy fucking shit."

It's low, almost guttural, and Hank smears the wet on his thumb across Connor's cheek before moving his fingers. Slowly at first, back and forth across the data processing centers on his tongue, a facsimile of an action that Connor hopes Hank will feel up to once they're done in the kitchen — and there's a slow grind of heat against the cleft of his rear before Hank withdraws his fingers entirely. He holds up his hand, studying the fluid and the way it beads and drips down his skin. It's more viscous than human saliva, the better to help him process samples; the fact that it works for this as well is something neither of them have bothered questioning.

Instead, Hank sets his hand on Connor's throat, dragging his fingers down the column of it to his chest; they catch in the still-buttoned fabric of his shirt for just a moment before he yanks, popping the buttons off the fabric as he rips it open. A wicked grin settles onto his face as Connor's regulator speeds up.

"I liked that shirt." It's petulant as Connor says it, and entirely for show; it's not the first shirt ruined doing something like this, and it certainly won't be the last.

Hank just chuckles, pushing the fabric aside to rub the rough pads of his fingers over a nipple. "I'll buy you a new one." The touch drags a groan from Connor's throat, and he does it again before his fingers slide lower, tracing the outline of his thirium pump. His fascination with it will never cease to interest Connor, and he watches Hank's eyes widen as the skin deactivates to reveal white chassis and the faint glow of circuitry. 

Hank finally glances back up as his hand settles just below Connor's navel. "You sure you're okay doing this?"

The question brings a small, soft smile to his face: Hank asks every time, and the consideration is never unwelcome. Connor shifts to slip a hand between them, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Hank's boxers and mimicking his own action to snap it against his hipbone. "Yes. I want this, and you."

Hank seems to like the permission, explicitly given; there's an awkward moment as they fumble to pull Hank's boxers low enough he can pull his erection out, and the sight of it sets Connor's head spinning. "Hank," he murmurs, "please hurry." He may not have the right parts at the moment, but whatever he can do to feel him, he wants to do it.

A quick nod, and Hank cups his hand under Connor's mouth; after a moment, he rolls the excess suspension fluid onto his tongue, and then into that palm. He can't see what's happening when he draws his hand back and behind his own thighs, but the sound of Hank slicking it along his cock is more than enough to paint a picture for him — Hank holds out his hand for more, this time rubbing it along the insides of Connor's thighs and groin.

The world seems to stand still for just a moment as Hank wraps an arm around Connor's knees, steadying his legs where they rest against his chest; after a second, there's a point of heat against the backs of his thighs, and then Hank rocks his hips forward.

Connor glances down, and it feels like his main processes stutter to a stop at seeing the tip of Hank's cock poking out from between his thighs; the want for it _inside_ is overwhelming, but this is almost as good. He braces himself on his elbows again to watch, and clamps his legs as close together as he can without causing harm.

There's a choked groan from Hank, something that might be his name, before he pulls back to repeat the movement. Slow at first, and he presses his free hand back to Connor's chest, fingers splayed across a surface of rapidly expanding white and gray chassis. Whether it's for the contact or to hold him in place, Connor neither knows nor cares; he rolls his back to meet that touch, groans as Hank drags his nails along the polycarbonate, and the sound turns into an outright _moan_ as they catch and trace along his thirium pump. A matching sound rumbles from deep in Hank's chest, and there's a sharp _snap_ to his hips that rocks Connor further up the counter. 

It's a good feeling — up until he realizes that it's pushing him farther and farther from Hank. And that, that just cannot stand. 

"Hank." His name is a plaintive sound at first, and it takes a couple of tries to get his attention. " _Hank_ , wait."

Hank stops, a troubled expression crossing his face once he processes what Connor says. "Wh— what is it, you okay?" His breathing comes heavily, and he's still hard, but he pulls away quickly, his hand cupping Connor's face. "What is it?"

"I'm fine," is the immediate reassurance, and that expression falls away. Connor pulls his legs off of Hank's shoulder, swinging them over the edge of the counter so he can sit up and kiss him deeply. "I'm fine," he repeats against his lips, before adding, "I just want to— hold on."

He decides in that moment that he's done being limited by the briefs; if the shirt is being replaced, they can be as well, and he grabs a pair of kitchen scissors from the knife block to cut them away before hopping onto the floor. He pushes Hank back a step as he turns — and leans over the counter, presenting himself with a glance back over his shoulder. 

Hank stares for a moment, before uttering a sharp curse. "You better clean me up before letting everyone know I died," he mutters. "No obituary that says _Hank Anderson: had a heart attack and died fucking his hot android boyfriend_." 

Connor looks away, and after a second, there's more suspension fluid in his hand that he reaches to smear across his thighs. "I'll keep that in mind," he teases, and when he glances back, Hank is intently watching the motion of his fingers. He spreads them, can feel a thread of the fluid stretch between the fingertips before it snaps and dribbles down to his hand, and Hank takes a sharp breath in response. Connor raises his eyebrows. "Well?"

Big hands grip onto his hips this time as Hank presses against him without another word; the shirt garters are mostly useless now that the shirt is ripped. The two of them shift and adjust, and when Hank is finally situated back between his legs, Connor sighs, leaning forward to brace his arms on the counter. 

Hank starts slowly, working himself back up to his previous fervor; as he does, he starts to talk, muttering about how good Connor is and how good he feels. Fingers find the shirt garters again, snapping them against his flank again before pulling on them — and it takes Connor entirely too long to realize that Hank is using them to control the movements of his hips. He reaches back to tangle his fingers into grey hair, arching his back and pulling Hank forward for a sloppy kiss over his shoulder. 

He loves doing this, the drag of Hank's dick between his thighs, how he feels trapped between the counter and his bulk, the way it feeds his ego to know he can rile Hank like this — he loses track of time when Hank growls his name, and it doesn't take much longer before his thrusts turn irregular and start to stutter. He murmurs Hank's name as a hand snakes around his front, fingers skating up his chest to settle at the base of his throat, and—

The flush of heat he expects is absent, as is any trace of ejaculate. Connor almost frowns, before Hank pulls him close, licks a stripe up the back of his neck and sends him shivering.

"I wasn't aware you were capable of dry orgasms," Connor says, voice pitched low as he shifts to face him.

"Yeah, it's been a while." Hank kisses him deeply, thoroughly, a hand cupping an ass cheek and squeezing. "I'm gonna let Sumo back in. You up for more?"

The thought of _more_ , _again_ , is too tantalizing. Connor leans to bite at Hank's lip, humming into the kiss. "Of course. Do you have a preference as to what set of genitals I equip?"

There's a low laugh as Hank shakes his head. "Dealer's choice. Meet you in the bedroom?"

Idly, he wonders if he'll ever stop loving this human, and knows the answer is _no_. "Don't take too long, or I'll start without you."

He starts down the hall, can feel Hank watching as he does, and he hears another soft groan. "This is totally how I die," he hears Hank mutter, and Connor can't help but laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> this happened bc i got challenged to write porn in under 3000 words. BARELY MADE IT HELL YEAH. it. it counts if no one comes, exactly, right?
> 
> if you want to yell at me to not be a tease and write actual porn and/or finish the actual story this is from, i can be found at softweeping at twitter o/


End file.
